Where to begin, where to finish addendum

I was sitting in a booth in Denny's. I had, on numerous occasions, gone to a sports bar and spread a meal out over three plus hours so as to watch a Boise State football game (that would be on a blue field Tom!) but this went far beyond that skill set. It was 9 p.m. and I had ordered a cup of coffee. The waitress stopped by several times to see if I was ready to order. I finally told her of my dilemma. 

The way I saw it I could go to the police station and confess that I have an outstanding parking ticket in Rome (I'd hold the parking tickets that I have in Boston, Cleveland and Boise for my ace in the hole), hoping that they would put me in a cell overnight until they contacted Roman authorities to see if they wanted to extradite me for an $XXXVIII ticket.

The waitress, Madison I believe her name was, talked to her manager to see what and where she would recommend I turn for help. A gentleman on the other side of the restaurant over heard the discussion and said he knew of a campground in Garibaldi, 9 miles to the north. He started giving me directions and, apparently, noticed my eyes glazing over. He finally offered this: he was sleeping in a tent in his brother's yard and knew there to be sufficient room for another tent. 

"No sense paying $36.00 for a tent site. My brother won't mind. I'm heading that way right now if you want to follow me". 

We had both just received our checks from the waitress so I thanked him and paid for his dinner. When we got outside he added "I need to make two quick stops before I go home. I need to pick up a barbecue for my brother's birthday present - today's his birthday, then I was going to stop and play a quick game of pool. Do you play pool?"

"Not well enough to claim it as a skill".

Follow me, were his parting words. So we took off to the north, he driving like a local who knew every curve of the road, I riding hard enough to keep sight of his tail lights. Nine miles later we pulled into the parking lot of the Ghost Hole, a Kareokie bar with a pool table. Dave, as he introduced himself, needed to go next door "for a minute" so I went inside by myself, found an empty table near the pool table. I no sooner sat down than an attractive young lady came over, plunked her stuff down on the table and went over to the table. She appeared attractive but not overly so, and she was dancing around the table like she had already enjoyed her first of many drinks. Dave eventually showed up and jumped in to play against her. They talked and acted as if they had met before, but not as if they were friends. I went to the bar and uttered words I did not think I would ever utter, "give me a shot of whiskey" (it was for Dave).

After the first game Dave insisted that I play a game. As I got up and approached the table the young lady came over and asked "you smoke?" 

"No".

"You socialize" she added, using air quotes to convey a meaning for "socialize" that was outside my lexicon. 

"Sometimes". Not the answer she was looking for apparently because she handed me off to the guy she was with, whom I was now going to play a game of pool against while Dave and his lady snuck out the back door to "socialize", saying she was going to grab a "smoke".

His game was not much better than mine so the game took awhile. Being that we were in Oregon I assumed that "She" and Dave were sharing a joint. But they either had a huge doobie or were "socializing" in a different manner.

When, long after I lost the game, Dave returned ("she" had returned first, then after going through her purse, disappeared out the front door). Dave bought another shot of whiskey, then played another game of pool. "She" came back, then left again after dancing around the table a couple of times. "She" sure was sociable, and her guy didn't pay much attention to her coming and going. Just saying...

Finally Dave came up and said he was ready to go so we left. He was going to pick up the barbecue the next day so he was ready to head to his brother's place. He took off down the Highway toward Rockaway Beach and I now was riding through the fog, in the dark, down a twisty highway across the face of cliffs, unable to watch for deer as I tried to keep up with a set of tail lights fastened to the back end of a vehicle being operated by a guy who had just downed two shots of whiskey and possibly smoked a joint (or two?).

We ended up safely in his brother's driveway where I was introduced to the brother, his wife and someone named Ryan (I missed the relationship explanation). They lived in a house that was nearly a hundred years old, just a block off the highway, among an eclectic collection of items that would have amazed any antique or junk dealer. We set up tents but then Dave insisted on breaking out the guitar so he could play the chords he knew with a special guitar pick. 

It seems that he was one of 18 kids (his, hers and theirs) and, at the age of 6, was pushed on a bike by his brother, in an attempt to teach him how to ride, into the back end of a truck. He severely pinched the end of his right index finger and cut it off. His nail then eventually grew over the end of his shortened finger, leaving him with a permanent guitar pickin' finger nail.

So he sat outside after all the neighbor's lights were off and strummed his guitar. Eventually we turned in.

This morning I got a better look around the back yard and found this

At least I got a free camp ground and another form of transportation out of a very strange night.